


All Gone Is Here Today

by MacabreMoose



Series: Of Wolves and Hunters [1]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27759580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacabreMoose/pseuds/MacabreMoose
Summary: By the time that he reaches the salvage yard, the sun has already almost completely sank well below the ground. His feet are sore with blisters and a probing touch to the chest reveals that it’s almost time for him to change the bandages. It was starting to itch again.
Series: Of Wolves and Hunters [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2031517
Comments: 2
Kudos: 79





	All Gone Is Here Today

By the time that he reaches the salvage yard, the sun has already almost completely sank well below the ground. His feet are sore with blisters and a probing touch to the chest reveals that it’s almost time for him to change the bandages. It was starting to itch again.

The conditions are less than ideal, especially over the last stretch of days. For one, his mouth was constantly parched, as if it had been sunbathing in the Sahara, and that really freaking _sucked_. Plus, living on an inconsistent diet of Cheetos and whatever little that he could afford from the gas station stores did nothing to improve his temper.

His mood was not much better either, but losing nearly everyone that he cared about would do that to a person. He alternated between grim silence and sudden bouts of numbing fear, the latter particularly at night. The edges were constantly frayed and every little thing seemed to set him off, spiralling him into grief or rage or sometimes even both.

The fucking cherry on the top was that the only thing he had left right now was two or maybe three names to finding whatever remaining family he had left. 

Unlike what most people would expect, the fact that he was not his father’s biological son had not been a particular hurdle. After all, he had grown up with the Sheriff as his dad, and nothing in the world would ever change that. 

It had been the Sheriff who had held his hands when Stiles had taken his first steps, spoken his first words, and it had been the Sheriff who had always been around for him. Definitely not some random asshole who had fucked off to god knows where a long time ago.

Dad was family, simple as that.

Life was too short to waste precious time angsting about blood relations, especially when he had his real family right there with him.

Life was too short, period. Particularly in Beacon Hills. His mom had been proof of that bitter pill. 

Then all his friends. 

Then Dad.

Stiles missed his Dad with a fierce ache. It wasn’t even when it had been when Mom died. That pain had faded long ago. Stiles had duct-taped it with memories of Scott and Dad and Melissa. He’d created new ones with the Pack. Now, having it all ripped open? 

It hurt much more than he could ever imagine.

Gritting his teeth to steer away from that depressing topic, he turned his focus to the salvage yard in front of him. He studied his surroundings, mentally matching the name of the owner to the one of the main leads that Danny had managed to pull for him. Singer Salvage Yard. It appears to be a match.

Something nagged at his senses though. The warning came as a quiet prickle at the back of his neck, adding to the unease that had started to churn in his gut. There was something fundamentally wrong with the place.

Outwardly, it looked like every other salvage yard, or at least like in the photos that he had seen some time back. The grounds outside had a generous serving of land, although this fact was undermined by the rows and stacks of cars covering every inch of the land. There were several outbuildings scattered here and there, with what looked to be a woodshed of some sort tucked neatly behind a bunch of trees.

Stiles was somewhat taken aback at the sheer number of vehicles planted on the property though.

It kinda seemed a little bit like overkill, with cars and trucks of all shapes and sizes, some dented, some rusting and others nearly completely crushed, all simply heaped around the yard.

Shaking his head to clear away his distracted musing, he directed his attention to the task at hand. The gravel crunched beneath his feet as he moved forward. The slight noise made him wince, but he soldiered on, keeping his face carefully blank as he made his way to what he correctly assumed was the main house.

A small movement caught the corner of his eye, and Stiles’s gaze flicked to the windows just in time to see the curtain move slightly. Well, it appeared that Mr Singer now knew that he was there. 

There was no turning back, he knew. 

He made his way to the front door, climbing the three steps to the porch. Each step, each thud of his foot against the wood, felt horribly final somehow. Like he had sealed his fate or something. 

Yeesh, he was definitely being way too dramatic about this.

Stiles hesitated at the last moment, pausing as he drew up in front of the closed entrance. Ignoring the trepidation in his gut, he took a shaky breath. Then another. He exhaled, steeling himself to either pursue the last lead that he had or go home with about three dollars to his name and nothing left.

He was about to knock when the door opened, the white-washed wooden frame swinging backwards with a creak. Stiles froze, his fist still curled mid-air.

A middle-aged man, around forty or so, stood in front of him, eyes narrowed in suspicion and one hand still clamped on the door. He was around Stiles’s height, solid and well-built. Pulled low over his head was a faded blue trucker’s cap. It shadowed most of his features although Stiles could just about make out brown-ish greying hair and a beard framing the curved part of his chin.

Everything about him practically screamed danger, and Stiles shifted slightly, uneasy at the direct and almost piercing attention. 

“Two questions - who the hell are you, and what do you want?” The man asked flatly, his tone impatient and more than a little irritated.

Stiles bristled at that, suddenly equally annoyed. He had literally walked all the way here and like _hell_ was he going to leave empty-handed because some old grouch got out of the wrong side of bed. Biting back a growled retort - _because he still had a little self-preservation left, thank you very much_ \- he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Mr Robert Singer?” He asked, drawing himself up to his full height and meeting the man’s intense gaze head-on. “Do you know a Dean and Samuel Winchester?”

He doesn’t add John Winchester’s name yet though because from what he and Danny had managed to dig up, Stiles’s biological father appeared to have quite the criminal record. Violent altercations, grave desecration and a frankly quite disturbing amount of physical assault charges. 

Danny, bless his little hacker heart, had pulled together a list of places that John Winchester was shown to frequent more than once. 

There had been this roadside bar in Nebraska but reports of any John Winchester-related appearances had slowly dwindled down over the years, and in the time frame of the last ten years or so, there was no indication of the man ever returning there. 

Somewhat suspicious, but not at all entirely unexpected. Maybe John had just been thrown out or barred from that place because of a disagreement. A bar fight sounded exactly like the kind of thing that the man would get into, especially given the man’s impressive rap sheet.

Bizarrely enough though, John Winchester had also been connected to this church down in Blue Earth, Minnesota. Records of a baptism, an ordained priesthood, present during multiple church services, etc…

So, reformed criminal on the run? 

Somehow, that didn’t seem to fit. Plus, the Pastor there, Jim Murphy, gave out a shady-as-hell vibe. Known to have dealings in the weapons trade, is sometimes seen with strange, dangerous-looking people entering his house, blah blah. Mafia? 

Then there was this guy named Caleb. Also very shady. Very little was dug up on him, however, although there had been plenty of off-hand links referencing him to John Winchester. A well-known acquaintance, then.

But here was the _real_ kicker.

Both Jim Murphy and Caleb were spotted on multiple occasions to enter the aforementioned bar, the Roadhouse. Both were also killed last year. In fact, it had been clear signs of murder in both investigations; a slit to the throat made with what seemed like the same weapon.

The mafia theory was really starting to warm up. 

So, no, telling this Robert person that he was connected to John Winchester seemed like a really dumb thing to do. Firstly, the man seemed like a really trigger-happy sort of person. Secondly, for all Stiles knew, Robert Singer could be the person going around murdering John’s people. 

That was more than little worrying. And very risky. Also, not a good combination. 

Still. He really needed to find Winchester, preferably sooner. Family was family, and even mafia family was better than nothing.

Instead, Stiles chose to mention the other two Winchesters, the ones with relatively clean records and seemed less like the murder-y type. But as soon as he said the two names, Stiles immediately realised that it was a mistake. _Fuck_.

If he thought that Robert Singer had been tense before, it was fucking _nothing_ compared to now. The man’s eyes hardened immediately at that name as his body stiffened. 

Robert Singer’s hand shot out suddenly, reaching for something behind the door that was out of view. Stiles couldn’t contain a flinch at the abrupt movement, and although he wasn’t completely aware of it, his body responded in turn, subconsciously tensing itself in preparation to fight.

He barely had time to react, however, before he found himself staring down the barrel of a shotgun. Pure panic flooded his veins, as his eyes flared in alarm. 

Almost as if it were an afterthought, the distinct click of the weapon being chambered rang in the air. 

Ah, shit. This was not good. 

Well, it certainly answered Stiles’s question though and although it might not necessarily be a _good thing_ , per say… it was still something that he could work with.

“How do you know those names? Who sent you here?” The man growled, the shotgun not even wavering from its position from where it was pointed straight at Stiles.

Not even daring to move, Stiles opened his mouth cautiously, hesitating only slightly before answering. “Nobody sent me here.” 

The words leave his mouth steady and unyielding, although he feels anything but that, especially with that _thing_ pointed straight at his head. But the fact that this was not exactly his first rodeo with dangerous situations, aka held at gunpoint, was a clear testament to how fucked-up his life was.

“I’m looking for Dean and Samuel Winchester because…” His voice trails off, before the last few words hurriedly spill out on a rush. “Because, I think that they might be family.”

The reaction that flits across Robert Singer’s face is quick, lightning-fast before it’s gone again, but Stiles is good at what he does. He knows how to pick apart emotions, how to read people. 

So he catches the flash of sharp disbelief, before it is abruptly overpowered by grief, anguish and anger, and the whole thing is gone just as quickly, shuttered underneath a steely mask. Blank. Devoid of emotion.

It’s the grief that unlocks the final part of the puzzle and suddenly, it all clicks into place. Stiles’s breath catches in his throat. Oh, he thinks quietly, numbness and detached sorrow crashing down all at once. He really was all alone now.

He was chasing a dead end after all. Literally. 

“Sorry to bother you, Mr Singer.” His voice comes out subdued. It almost breaks on the last word. He turns to leave.

“Boy, wait.” A hand lands on his shoulder, catching him before he goes. Stiles goes utterly still, a shuddering breath escaping his throat in a raspy wheeze. 

The weight on his shoulder is firm, but gentle, and that mere act is almost enough to bring him to tears once more. It reminds him of his Dad. He knows that if he closed his eyes now, he could pretend that it was the Sheriff’s hand on his shoulder, guiding him, _protecting_ him.

The longing is so strong that it nearly sends him reeling. _It’s not okay_ , he thinks desperately. No matter how hard he pretended, everything was not okay. 

Dammit, why did it have to _hurt_ so much?

But he needs to do this, he understands that much. 

There is a dull thud from behind him, and Stiles knows without looking that the weapon has been dropped off to one side. He knows this by the rustle of fabric behind him, the metal barrel sliding roughly past coarse material. 

A thought occurs to him, and Stiles suddenly realises that whatever crap that Winchester was clearly involved in, it is suddenly and painfully clear that Robert Singer was on his side. 

Stiles didn’t trust him yet, though, but he had a strong feeling that he should at least tell the man why Stiles was even on his doorstep in the first place. Maybe Robert could help him, and that was still better than nothing.

“John Winchester.” He says abruptly, the words escaping his mouth on its own volition. “Seventeen year ago. Beacon Hills. He arrived in town, checked out two weeks later and left behind a goddamn mess that had the police department scrambling for weeks afterwards.”

He closes his eyes, feeling the harsh sting of tears burn behind his eyelids. His heart pounds loudly in his chest as the final two words tumble out. 

“And me.” His voice is barely audible, almost a whisper, a shameful confession.

He pretends that he is alright, pretends that there are no tears on his face, pretends that he is home in Beacon Hills with his Dad and his Pack by his side. Pretend, pretend, pretend.

It seems that he can’t quite bring himself to get rid of the illusion yet.

The grip on his shoulder tightens almost imperceptibly as soon as his previous words leave his mouth. Stiles knows without looking that the old man’s face behind him is practically radiating shock.

There is a terse silence for a while, his confession hanging in the air gravely like a death sentence. Stiles hesitates, unsure on whether to stay or move or leave, or something. A larger part of him hates not knowing what to do. His face felt red, as if it were on fire, the shame and embarrassment fuelling the heat behind his eyes.

“Well, you’d best come on in then, boy.” Robert says finally, his voice low and just the tiniest bit gentler. 

The words break through the tangled weave of frantic thoughts in his head, and he nods mutely, his mouth completely dry. The change from hostility to softness is more than a little disconcerting, and it throws him off balance. If anything, it serves to make him even more uneasy, especially now, because he knows that he’s too emotional and not thinking straight.

Stiles moves as if on autopilot, limbs heavy and drained, the firm hand on his back steering him past the front door and into the house. Crossing the threshold, the invisible line between here and there, felt like crossing into an honest-to-god completely different dimension. Like fucking _Narnia_.

The smell is a physical punch to the gut. If Stiles didn’t know better, he would say that the air inside the house was one that had been completely soaked in alcohol, burned over a campfire, and then smeared with hints of ancient tomb, mummy bandages and exotic herbs. It’s _strong_ , and there’s something so profoundly personal and intense about the space, that it feels sacred, but in an odd way.

For a moment, he is almost completely overwhelmed, taken aback by the sheer amount of things around him. Various items, misshapen metal pieces mostly, cover every flat-ended surface in what Stiles guesses is the living room. Cabinets of all shapes and sizes - oblong, small, circular, hexagonal - occupy every inch of the area, their interiors filled with small coloured bottles and odd plant material.

There are literal stacks of books scattered on the floor. Dusty tomes with exaggerated titles, small leather-bound journals and faded packets of yellowing paper barely held together by twine. A quick peek at the titles, and a furtive glance around the room, ascertains that the general topic that they all have in common are to do with the theme of mythology. 

Stiles steps gingerly and cautiously past the minefield of books, following Robert Singer’s lead as the older man makes his way to a relatively clearer section of the house. His gaze lingers on some of the more fascinating stuff, however, although each new addition made his eyebrows climb higher.

There is an ancient-looking map pinned to the table, looking like it was currently being stabbed viciously to the surface by some rather angry-looking pins. And if that wasn’t such a warning sign, what Stiles saw next, was most certainly was.

With that, the final piece of the puzzle finally clicked in his mind as Stiles registered the presence of the _weapons_. 

Dear god, the sheer amount of weapons laid out all over the house was practically borderline _obsessive_. It wasn’t just the cabinet full of guns tucked away in one corner; no, what Stiles was referring to in this case meant the sheer amount of knives everywhere. 

The startling gleam of silver that caught his eye, turned out to be katanas, all placed on a wooden rack behind bags of what looked to be fertilisers. Several daggers were hastily tucked away to one corner, and a quick glance hinted at the presence of either dried blood or some other foreign substance coating the thin metal in a dull sheen.

Not to mention, there was a _freaking_ rapier casually placed with the iron poker right next to the fireplace.

On its own, that probably didn’t necessarily mean anything bad per say, but the lack of dust or grime anywhere near indicated that the blades were for a far more practical use and less of a morbid decorational piece.

The thing that turned out to be nagging him earlier? Yeah, it suddenly hit Stiles that all of this was _familiar_ to him in a way that it really shouldn’t have been. He’d been here, or somewhere like here at least. A frown drew his eyebrows together, as he carefully gazed around the room again.

In particular, his eyes were drawn straight to what he guessed was the medicinal cabinet, given the nature of its contents peering out from behind a glass barrier. A chill ran through him as he realised that he could actually recognise some of those things.

Those purple and yellow flowers in there? _Wolfsbane_.

Those green stalks attached with milky-coloured berries? Mistletoe.

And not just those; if he was not mistaken, and he was fairly certain that he was not, there were also samples of Lamb’s cress, betony and fennel alongside the two more incriminating ones. Three of the Nine Herbs Charm.

The steadily growing suspicion solidified after he finally placed what had been bothering him about this place. The thing that had been rubbing him the wrong way earlier? It was that familiar atmosphere and the certain feel that the house had.

It reminded him of Deaton’s clinic, with all the Doc’s magic potions and weird mysterious plants that the man kept in his druid’s arsenal kit that Stiles was almost a hundred percent sure was intended to be deadly in some form or other. And although he wasn’t that well-versed in herb-lore, but from what little that he could gather, Singer’s collection of various plant ingredients was a particularly potent one.

The strong stuff, the real hoodoo. Powerful magic. Exactly like Deaton’s clinic.

Minus the animal smell, of course.

This place was the holy- _freaking_ -grail of resources. It was the Doc’s clinic and the Argent place all rolled up in one, the latter primarily because of the sheer amount of weapons. There were a _lot_ , to the point that it was way past overkill. 

Based on his experience so far, most of the hunters that he knew had a weird form of weapons kink. But if this house belonged to a hunter, like Stiles suspected strongly that Mr Singer was, then it would be the first time that he had ever seen a hunter with books, and research. 

Actual study into the supernatural field, and not just the _shoot first, ask questions never_ attitude that the Argents and their lackeys had. Sure, they had a bestiary and all that, but Stiles had seen the inside of that thing and most of it was only about how to kill the creatures, not actually useful information about the supernatural being itself.

“Are you just going to stand there, boy?” Robert’s dry voice pulled him away from his thoughts and back to reality.

Unable to help himself, Stiles flushed slightly, suddenly realising that he’d been just standing there for definitely way too long. He sent a silent apology to Singer, releasing a quick breath of relief when the man merely accepted it without a word and continued the trek forward.

They pulled to a stop in a smaller room ahead. Stiles guessed that it was more like a kitchen area, or something like that. Here, it was less cluttered with things. Even the air felt more clearer. And while it did indeed share the oddly charged atmosphere with the other room, it felt much more duller here. Strong, but definitely not as loud as before. 

“Sit.” The man ordered gruffly, nodding towards the dark coloured table occupying the center of the room. 

Stiles found himself obeying instinctively, drooping into one the chairs without a subconscious thought. 

The slow rush of water pouring from the tap is oddly calming, and it helps Stiles to anchor his thoughts onto more steady and safer ground. He breathes, exhaling slowly as he thought of what to say. By the time that he looks up again, it is just in time to see a mug of what he presumes is water being placed down in front of him.

The indication is clear, and he followed the cue, gingerly reaching forward and grasping the handle of the porcelain mug. The faded grey markings on the mug are strangely mesmerising. One hand gripping the mug, he settled backwards more cautiously. The palm of his other hand is open, the fingers splayed apart, and when he steadies himself against the table, that’s when he finally feels the wood. 

Like, actually _feels_ the wood of the table surface.

It’s… _alive_. It tingles beneath his touch, gentle but pulsing, and the sensation is so startling that it takes all of his willpower not to visibly react, although he suspects that he didn’t quite manage to do a good job of it, judging by the slight frown on Singer’s face. 

Biting back a panicked retort, Stiles releases his grasp on the table, carefully clasping the mug between his hands. He forces himself to take a small sip, wincing slightly underneath the full weight of the other’s attention. The water - and he had been right about that - slips down his throat, leaving behind an odd hint of bitterness.

He spares a thought to the possibility that maybe he’d just been poisoned, but discards the notion soon after. It would be illogical that Singer would pursue that route now, especially as the guy could’ve easily just shot him earlier, but didn’t. Case in point.

Silence falls over the place again, muffling the sounds of life outside. The pause is almost nerve-wrecking, and a swell of anxiety wells up in his gut. His head throbs. What happens next, well… the blame rests solely on Stiles’s newfound lack to give a fuck anymore.

“So which one are you?” He asks tiredly, cutting straight to the crux of the matter as he settles the mug back down with a loud clink. “A hunter, a mercenary or a Druid?”

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Singer’s thick eyebrows flare up in surprise.

Stiles sees the new suspicion build up in the man’s eyes, but to Singer’s credit, the older man doesn’t give any other visible sign of reaction in the slightest. Just the eyebrows. Those were very expressive, like Derek’s used to be. 

That thought brings down his mood considerably once more, and what little appetite that has been gradually building vanishes just as suddenly, leaving him feeling sick. _God_ , he even feels like throwing up the small amount of water that he had previously forced down.

“Hunter.” Singer replies carefully, voice breaking through the haze of his thoughts, and Stiles clings onto it desperately, grateful for the distraction.

Then, he registered the words. 

Stiles closed his eyes, took a deep breath and mentally counted to ten. The sick feeling in his gut is back, full-force this time. His chest clenches painfully at the rather unfortunate turn of events, even as his mind works furiously, the pieces clicking into place rapidly.

Winchester must have been a hunter as well. _Was_ a hunter, anyway. There was no doubt that the guy was dead now. Rest in peace ( _pieces?_ ), pop. A pang made its way through his heart at that, although it was more of a muted sadness for all the lost opportunities rather than actual grief for the man himself.

Distantly, Stiles wondered which supernatural big-bad-and-ugly had done John Winchester in. Hopefully, it had not been a werewolf, because the irony there would have been terrible. If it was, then… Stiles didn’t know honestly whether to laugh or cry.

He wondered if John Winchester was anything like Gerard or Kate Argent. God, he hoped not. Wouldn’t that be a fucking bitter pill to swallow… Subconsciously, his fists clenched by his side, the nails digging into the skin of his palm as he pondered upon the implications of his dear old dad being a freaking hunter.

It seemed that no matter where he went, the supernatural world was always close behind.

“John Winchester - he, uh, was a hunter too, wasn’t he?” The words came out clumsy and hesitantly. Stiles had to know, he _needed_ to.

“Yeah, kid.” Singer confirmed, his voice rough. “He was.” 

_Was_. “He’s dead already, isn’t he?” Stiles asked, bracing himself for the reply even though deep down, he already knew the answer.

The older hunter winced at that, before offering a gentler, “Sorry, kid.”

“Oh.”

Quiet falls over them after that, each one caught up in their own bittersweet memories. 

Frustration churns in Stiles’s gut. He had already guessed early on that his biological father was dead, so why did it still bother him so much? Perhaps it was because that hearing it being actually confirmed felt infinitely more final than him merely suspecting it. Like the final nail in the coffin.

The universe was not done screwing with him, that much was clear. So far, his lot in life sucked. As if being abruptly thrust into the world of werewolves wasn’t merely enough, there had been evil murderous psychopaths, Dread Doctors and even freaking _Nazi_ werewolves. Japanese demons, the Wild Hunt, _Kanimas_. The Pack had managed to emerge victorious after so much, only to be taken down by _hunters_ of all things. 

( _They never should have let their guard down. Not for one minute, not for a single second_ )

Hunters like his _father_. Hunters who had killed and taken _everything_ from Stiles. 

( _The Pack bonds broke on a Saturday afternoon. Gathered in one place, lined up for slaughter. He’d watched them fight and die, had fought until his hands had bled red and his body crumpled. When he’d woken up, he was utterly alone._ )

His jaw clenched as he gritted his teeth. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth and he felt like throwing up. Strange, how interchangeable it was, from rage to grief, and try as he might, Stiles couldn’t bring himself to feel anything else other than a deep-set weariness. He hated himself for that. 

“Dean and Samuel? Are they alive?” He asked, willing his voice to remain steady as he grasped for a new topic. The mere act of lingering even slightly on thoughts of his old life tore open old wounds that he’d much rather kept hidden. 

Pain flashed across Singer’s face, not unlike that of the anguish that Stiles still felt keenly over the loss of his Pack. “Sam is alive.” The old hunter said shortly, and the meaning in that was all too clear.

Stiles nodded, feeling the heavy pressure on his chest ease a little. He was not completely alone then. Dean might be dead but Samuel - or _Sam_ \- was still alive. He had a clear direction on where to go, a _purpose_ , and something to do. _Fucking_ finally.

The elation only lasts for a brief moment, before Singer tells him flatly and in not so many words that Sam was MIA and gone completely off the grid. Disappointment comes crashing down and he swallows to ease the tightening sensation around his throat. He still feels off-kilter and there too much emotion clouding up his head at the moment.

The back of his eyes burn with the beginning of entirely unwelcome tears, and he turns his head away to hide it.

Stiles can’t quite explain, but then there’s this quiet shift that takes place from that one moment to the next. It’s like something in the air changes, twisting once, _twice_ before settling heavily into his bones. A surge of determination overtakes him at once, and it feels like the pieces of a puzzle that he cannot see has fallen into place.

A chessboard would be a more apt analogy - it feels like he’s playing chess without seeing the board. It’s an uncomfortable reminder of the Nogitsune and that game of Go on the Nemeton. Play to win. The territories at stake, with nothing less than the Nemeton as the ultimate prize.

Robert Singer’s directed gaze is heavy and steady, and the weight of it both comforts and makes him squirm in his seat. Stiles has to will himself to look up. His own amber eyes lock with the older hunter’s brown ones, and in that moment, something significant is passed silently between them.

“I have nowhere to go.” Stiles says abruptly. Carefully. He lifts his head in challenge.

The look on Singer’s face is pointed and more than a touch sarcastic, but there’s something like a deadly promise in them as he stretches out one weathered and calloused hand. Stiles understands at once the significance of what the older hunter is doing, what he's _offering_.

“Then stay.”

Stiles takes it.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave kudos, comments or suggestions down below. It is very much appreciated and treasured by the writer.


End file.
